


Beneath a Moonless Sky

by wishicouldunreadthat



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 14:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12509456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishicouldunreadthat/pseuds/wishicouldunreadthat
Summary: Dan thought he had put Phil’s death behind him - after all, after their good times together, Phil had decided to end it. But, when unpacking into his new place, with his A-Levels coming to an end, he stumbles across some of Phil’s old things, and the memories come back. Wait… that isn’t a memory… it looks like Phil. Could Phil really have come back, to right the wrongs and tell Dan what really happened? Or is Dan finally losing his mind? Through a mixture of present and past, follow Dan through the turmoil of finally reaching a resolution to close the book on his and Phil’s friendship.





	Beneath a Moonless Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fic for the 2017 Phandom Big Bang (PBB5)! Check out my tumblr post of this fic (@wishicouldunreadthat) to see the art for this fic created by @evermoriver!

**Warnings: strong language, angst, sadness, fluff, brief hints of smut, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, mentions of suicide, mentions of manslaughter, main character death (x2), mentions of bullying (verbal and physical), blades and blood, homophobia**

_He’s supposed to be in lesson with me. Where could he have gone, at a time like this? So what, we stopped talking, and he’s avoiding me - that’s never made him miss lesson before._

_“Phil,” I call out, hoping he’ll come and see me. I hope it isn’t anything like before, that Phil hasn’t fallen that deep. No - I convince myself that that can’t be it: nothing has really happened, has it, to make him depressed enough? Besides - even if he has, I took his blades away._

_I reach the toilets, the ones I used to find him in, that we used to spend a lot of time in, before this strange silence between us. Inside, there’s nothing but silence._

_“Phil?” I call, quieter this time. He isn’t crying - I would recognise that sound well. One of the cubicles has a closed door, so I walk over, hoping he’s okay, if he’s even in there._

_“It’s only me. Please, just come out. I want to talk.”_

_Still, no response. I try to push the door open - tightly locked._

_I kneel down and look under the door - he’s hidden himself on the toilet seat before, trying to stay out of sight. Not from me, usually, but sometimes from me._

_I squeal at the sight and jump back, my heart thudding horrendously, tears welling in my eyes._

_Phil. Laying there. Eyes blank. Blood trailing the floor._

_I scream and hit the door, over and over, trying to bang it down. I cry out until my throat shatters. I scream until my lungs dry out and my chest seizes up. And I don’t stop screaming, even though I know he isn’t there - I just want to hold him._

I carry in the last of the boxes and close the door behind me. The flat is practically empty still, and painfully white in colour, but it won’t be long before it feels like home. The bed is already set up, and the desk, and that’s about it - I moved out a few months ago, at the end of the summer, but being a procrastinator it’s been hard to prioritise the final touches of this place when my A-levels are finishing this year. And, honestly, after Phil’s death I took on a minimalistic lifestyle - meaning that I lacked any motivation for life. I was just lucky that the summer holidays fell straight after, and I could be alone without any obligations or commitments like school.

I open up this final box, inspecting its content (as I learnt from the last boxes, there was a lot of stuff I packed that I thought I would need at the time, but ultimately turned out to be useless). I sigh - it’s another useless one: old school stuff from Year 12, and not even actual academic stuff, it’s full of little things like a notebook with notes and scribbles, messages passed during class, little rude drawings we’d done in our own time.

Oh. It’s Phil’s things.

I almost close up the box again and leave it. I don’t want to deal with this again. But if I ignore it, the box will just lay around, reminding me every day. So the best thing to do is empty it now, get it over with, get closure.

I start taking things out - the notebook, I keep, but the doodles and messages I don’t - until I come across a scrunched up piece of paper stained with old tears. Some of the ink has run, and mould has started growing where the tears were left to rot. Phil’s note. The last words he ever said to me.

I don’t want to read it again. But my eyes are drawn to it, curious, because after a year I can’t remember what he’d said.

_“Dan,_

_You never knew me well enough. You thought we were friends, but you couldn’t see how I really felt. I hated you, Dan. I hope you stay away from people like me. I’ve done bad things. I’m so messed up I even did a bad thing to you._

_Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want your sympathy._

_Phil.”_

I scrunch it up aggressively in my hand and chuck it back in the box, finally deciding to close it up. Of fucking course I would forget, after all this time: Phil didn’t like me, in the end. I keep letting myself forget that. So why do I still feel like crying when I think about him, even now?

“You know that’s full of lies, right?”

My throat tightens in shock. I turn around, facing my bedroom door, and there, in the empty doorway, stands a ghost: a ghost of my past.

Phil. He looks sad. He takes a deep breath.

“But you didn’t know, did you?” he continues. He just stands there, staring at me. “You believed every word on that page. We were best friends for so long, we knew each other so well, but you still thought those words were mine.”

My heart is pounding - no, trembling. It’s overwhelmed. My lungs let out an airless breath.

“No…” I cry, disbelieving. “This isn’t fair…”

Phil takes a step forward. “It says that I hate you. So you thought I did. But, even so, why did you keep it?”

“Fuck off,” I spit. My legs tremble like jelly, like all the blood and energy has been drained out of them, and my body collapses to the floor with a loud  _thud._ “Why now? I was forgetting you. Why do I have to care now?”

Maybe I’ve finally lost my mind.

Phil reaches out a hand to me, but it’s cautious. His fingers may even be trembling.

“It’s been a while,” he whispers, trying to keep me calm, trying to smile at me. Then he drops his hand, his smile wavering. “It’s nearly the anniversary, you know?”

Red flashes across my mind then. Hatred. It rushes through my bloodstream, causing adrenaline to start racing.

“Shut up! Go away! Don’t you dare do this now!” I scream loudly, wanting to throw him away from my mind as violently as I can. I push myself up from the floor and sprint into my room, passing him, and I slam the door shut. My body throws itself onto the bed and I shield myself with the covers, pulling them protectively over my head. I start to rock back and forth, overcome with restlessness and desperation, as I continue to scream. “You’re gone! You’re dead - you died a fucking year ago!” Tears fall from my eyes. I’ve actually gone insane. “I can’t do this! Just go away, please!”

Once I quieten down, the flat feels empty, and I feel truly alone.

***

I don’t go to school the next day. I can’t bring myself to. How can I go and continue my normal life when my mind is messed up?

I stand by the lake, at the bottom of the field that my flat overlooks. I stand on the rocks that border the slow-flowing stream of ice-cold water, holding his note. The wind is blowing strongly and loudly, trying to take it out of my hands. I’m tempted to just let it go. But that wouldn’t solve anything.

Why am I suddenly thinking about Phil now, after a whole year? Of course, I have thought about him before, since his death, but not like this - not as though he’s really here.

The first few weeks following his suicide, I spent a lot of time in our  _spots_ , our secret hangouts, and I would sit there for hours on end, in complete silence, thinking over all the time we had spent here together, and how strange this new silence felt in place of him. I grew horribly sick of the new emptiness that all these places held - it wasn’t just that Phil wasn’t there anymore, but it felt like he  _was_ there, before, like in his place was a vacuum, a reminder, of his now empty space.

I used to have dreams, for a lot longer afterwards, when Phil would come to me, like a ghost sometimes, or like nothing had ever happened. I used to hate those dreams. We would be hanging out together, in one of our favourite spots, and I would feel so relieved that the horrid dream of Phil being dead wasn’t real, and then I would wake up. It would be like walking in on his body all over again, every morning that I woke from those dreams.

I stopped sleeping after that. I stopped visiting our spots, too. It got unbearable.

Instead, to cope, I put Phil behind me. He was dead, so why mull over him any longer? He wouldn’t want me to waste my life over him now - that’s what I told myself.

“What are you waiting for?” His voice comes to me again: I look up, and there he is again, standing on the rocks opposite me. “Aren’t you here to get rid of it?”

I stare down at the paper in my hand: torn, rotting, gross. “What makes you say that? Haven’t I held onto it all this time?”

“That’s what I was wondering - why did you keep it?”

I just sigh, not daring to look back at him. “They’re your last words to me. How could I throw them away?”

Phil sighs back at me. “I thought you might pretend they weren’t real, that I always liked you.” He gestures to the paper in my hand. “Those words destroyed you, even more than my death.” I agree with him, because they truthfully did: I could barely cope with Phil committing suicide and leaving me for good, but the fact that he hated me after all the time we spent together broke me more than if he hadn’t died at all. “They’re not my words, Dan. I promise you that.”

I grow angry again, glaring at this strange Phil-shaped ghost. “Then whose are they, huh? How am I supposed to believe you? You’re not even real!”

Phil blinks, growing sad. It looks like he might cry. “What do you think I am, then? Some hologram? One of your daydreams?” Then his eyes brighten, like he’s realised. “You think I’m just in your head. You don’t think it’s really me.”

“Well how could it be?!” I scream, enraged. “You’re fucking dead, Phil! You’re gone! And I’ve finally lost my mind over you. You’re only here now because I fucking brought you back.”

My fingers start shaking, overwhelmed, over-energised, and they tear the paper quickly and violently into shreds. It starts to fly away into the wind, in scraps, away from this spot. Once it’s all gone, I stand there, fists clenched, breathing heavily to calm myself down. I’ve wanted to do that for ages.

Phil just stands there,  _still_  standing there, watching me without a word. For a while, the silence is back - not the current one, the Phil-absent one, but the old and comfortable one that me and Phil used to sit in together, in our spots.

“Why did you care?” he asks me quietly, carefully. “Why do you think you’ve brought me back?”

My breath wavers, the urge to cry overwhelming me, as much as I try to suppress it. “Because I miss you.” I wipe my eyes, wishing I wasn’t so emotional. “I’m still clinging onto you, even though you’re gone. I can’t let you disappear.”

He’s quiet again for a moment. “Then why aren’t you happy to see me?”

I refuse to look at him. I never cried in front of Phil, and I don’t wish to change that now, even if it isn’t really him. “Because I was trying to get over you. And I was nearly there: I’d almost completely forgotten about you.”

Phil is next to me suddenly, reaching out to me, but not quite able to touch me. I fight the urge to move away. “ _Please_ don’t say that,” he begs me. “Please don’t forget me. You’re the only person who might remember me. Everyone else has long forgotten.” He sighs, defeatedly. “I know it’s selfish of me, but I can’t let you go either. That’s why I’m still here.”

I turn my head round to look at him squarely. I might as well not run anymore - he won’t be leaving me anytime soon, will he? “What do you mean? You’ve only just arrived.”

At that, to my surprise, Phil solemnly shakes his head. “I’ve been around since the start. I just couldn’t bring myself to face you until now.”

He reaches his hands up towards me again, his fingers trembling nervously. With that gesture, I feel the urge to do the same, wishing I could touch him, or at least hold onto him again. Gently, Phil manages to bring his hand successfully up to my face, and he rests his fingers on my cheeks. I find myself gasping at the touch: it’s almost like I can feel him. What I feel is a sudden chill, like a cold breeze frozen in motion against my face, and it causes a shiver to run down my spine.

“I’m real, Dan,” Phil tells me, the desperation for me to believe him clear in his voice. “It’s really me.”

My heart gives out and I start to cry, unwillingly, unable to stop. I find that I believe him. I struggle to breathe between gasps, crying ungracefully. “I’ve missed you,” I tell him happily, like he didn’t already know. “So, so much.”

I try to reach out to him, trying to pull him close and hug him, but my arms fall right through him. That makes my heart hurt, that I can’t touch him like I used to. My need to hold him close again can’t ever be fulfilled. But then again - I never thought I would ever see him again.

“Why are you here?” I ask him, desperate to know. “Why only now? I needed you way before this. Why didn’t you come and see me as soon as you could?”

I realise that Phil seems to be crying too, if he can. He looks away from me when I ask that question. “I did,” he answers quietly. “I mean; I tried to. But that note - it made you think that I hated you, and you believed it, and I couldn’t face you when you felt like that towards me, like you hated me. And under that, I was so desperate to tell you the truth, to make it right, but I was convinced that you wouldn’t believe me.” He goes silent for a moment, then shakes his head, taking his hands away from me. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me. Besides: how could I convince you that I was real, that I was still around? I’m dead. You saw my body. How would you believe that I was back?”

I honestly don’t know. How horrid must it be, to be in his position?

The day keeps going behind us. Time continues to pass. The sun has almost reached its peak in the sky, and its heat is burning down. June. It tends to get quite warm. It was always summer when we came down here, together, so we could dip our feet in the water.

“This is a good place to start this,” Phil says softly. He’s sitting down now, with his toes slowly tracing the cold surface of the water. None of it moves for him, though. “This is where we first met, two years ago. Do you remember?”

I let out a small, light laugh. “Of course I remember,” I reply with, almost smiling. “How could I ever forget?”

_July. The beginning of the summer holidays. The end of GCSE exams, finally. I have never been so relieved to see summer._

_I decide to spend the day outside, alone, rather than staying locked up in my bedroom all the time. It’s like a New Year’s Resolution: I will go outside more, I promised myself, secretly knowing that it wouldn’t last. I walked myself down to the field, not seeing many people around - just the occasional dog walker. I smile to myself: actually, spending my time outside might not be too bad after all, if I can be alone._

_I take myself around the whole field, taking in as much as I can, and trying to figure out the best spots to stay in. As I reach the back, I find a small break in the thick line of trees that border this field, and I decide to venture inside. Maybe other people have been this way, before me, so they should be something there (even if it’s just more empty field)._

_Outside of the trees comes a small clearing, with a calm river running through it, which I can’t cross. Bordering this river is a line of large rocks, keeping the ground safe from moisture and flooding._

_But that isn’t what I’m staring at._

_On the other side of the river, the place that I can’t reach, there is a boy, around my age. He sits there, on the rocks, sobbing, his head down so his hair covers his face. He’s holding one hand in the other, making me think it might be injured._

_“Hey,” I call. He shoots his head up to me instantly, flinching at the sound of my voice. I see his grip get tighter. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”_

_He stares at me for a moment. Then he drops his head back down to his lap._

_“Just go away,” he mumbles. “Please.”_

_I stare back at him, curious. Then I walk forwards and sit myself down on the rocks opposite him. He looks up at me again, with a look of confusion crowding his face._

_“What are you doing?” he asks, definitely confused. “I said go away.”_

_I shrug my shoulders. “I won’t,” I answer back firmly, still holding a smile. “Not until I know you’re okay.”_

_To my surprise, he scoffs at that. Then he ignores me. “It’s not like you can do anything from over there, anyway.”_

_My eyes sharpen at those words, anxiety boiling in my stomach._

_I open my mouth to speak, to ask him what he’s talking about, but then I get my answer: he’s holding a small metal blade in his right hand, and he brings it to his wrist. I want to cry out, to tell him to stop, but he drags it sharply along his flesh before I can say anything, and the blood start to bead and pool quickly on his skin. Then he turns his wrist around, facing it down towards the water, and his blood starts to drip away, fading into the river._

_“What are you doing?!” I cry loudly, alarmed. “Stop that! You’ll hurt yourself!”_

_He scoffs again. “That’s the point, you know?”_

_I can’t say anything to that. How am I supposed to stop him, when he doesn’t want to be stopped? I’ve never met someone like this._

_“Our lives are like this, you know?” he starts to say quietly, still not looking at me - watching his blood fall from his wrist instead. “We appear, brought to life, even though we didn’t ask for it, and then - ” I watch too as more drops start to fall. “ - then we’re gone. We disappear. And we don’t matter.”_

_I just blink. “You’re crazy,” I gasp. “But you’re the delusional type of crazy, not the psychotic kind.”_

_He looks at me then, finally, and cocks his head._

_“Life isn’t that simple. We aren’t just born and then die, like that. And maybe death is meaningless, a definite end, but so what? The world still exists. It still existed in the first place. Sure, we don’t matter once we’re dead. But life still matters. Don’t just throw that away.”_

_For a moment, this boy, this stranger, just stares at me back. I can’t see any emotion on his face. “You’ve thought about this,” he deducts, “haven’t you?”_

_I shrug my shoulders. “It’s my specialty.”_

_At that, he almost smiles. “Same here. Does that make us equally crazy?”_

_“Hell no.”_

_His almost-smile fades away then. “You have a nice way of thinking,” he compliments me, a thin line of sadness clear in his tone. Then he lets out a weak sigh. “But that doesn’t change anything.”_

_I frown. “What do you mean?”_

_He ignores me. “It was nice of the world to give me someone to talk to, at this time.” His eyes really lock onto me then. “You don’t think I come out here every day to cut myself, do you? Today is special: I wanted to be somewhere beautiful for this.” Then he looks at me and almost smiles. “You probably aren’t anything more than a ghost from my head. Why else would you have stayed?”_

_He looks back at his wrist, falling silent, and brings the blade back to his flesh - except, this time, it’s vertical._

_“NO!” I scream, acting on impulse: my body flings itself into the river, unfazed by the chill of the water, and I swim quickly over to the other side, haul myself onto the rock, and I jump over him, the stranger, pinning both of his arms down by his head._

_“Let go!” he squeals, trying to struggle. “Why do you care, anyway?” I realise he’s started crying, now that I’ve interrupted his plans._

_“Just shut up,” I shoot back. I force the blade out of his hand and throw it away, letting the river take it far away from us. “Shut up and keep still.”_

_I take my jacket off (yes, I like to wear a lot of clothes, who cares if it’s summer?) and carefully start to wrap it round his wrist. With the sleeves, I hook them round his neck, tying them together._

_As I sit back, he continues to sulk, wiping his face with his right hand, now that it’s the only one that’s free._

_“Why are you doing this?” he asks me, his voice quieter than before. “I don’t understand. You don’t even know me.”_

_“Why should I have to know you to care?” I answer back. I don’t get an answer from him. I wonder if that’s a good thing. “My name is Dan, by the way.” He looks directly at me, shyly. I guess he feels more awkward now - maybe he didn’t think we’d spend much time together. “Tell me yours.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because I care,” I shoot back. “And I’m not leaving you until I know you’re okay.”_

_At those words, I see this boy, for the first time, truly smile. “I’m Phil.”_

_And I smile back._

“You saved my life,” Phil says, smiling. “I never thanked you for that.”

I scoff, shaking away the memory. “Shut up. I don’t want to think about that right now.”

“Why? Because you couldn’t save me this time?” I keep quiet. “That’s not your fault. My death had nothing to do with you.”

I grow angry again - more a defensive angry than aggressive, unusually. “Of course it fucking did! What, am I supposed to believe that you avoiding me that very same day wasn’t just a coincidence? Am I supposed to believe it wasn’t suicide either, or that you aren’t even really dead?”

Phil appears right in front of me, suddenly, glaring at me in a way he hasn’t ever done before. But still, even with such a look, I can see his sadness clearly breaking out to me. I’ve seen him sad a thousand  times, so I know what it looks like on him.

“Believe me when I say this,” he starts with, slowly, like I really won’t believe him. He opens his mouth, ready to say something - then he stops. He just closes his mouth again and lets out a defeated sigh. “No. Nevermind. Why would you believe me?”

Then he’s gone. I want to ask him what he meant, what he wanted to tell me so suddenly. But I don’t know where he’s disappeared to.

I hold onto the thought that he’ll come back this time. He said he wanted to make things right, didn’t he? Surely he wouldn’t stay away for good before he could give us some proper closure.

_“Are you really going to stay here with me?” Phil asks. I confidently nod my head, which only makes him groan. “How long for?”_

_“I told you,” I reply with. “Until I know you’re okay.”_

_We’re both lying on the grass by this point, with our legs dangling from the knees over the edge of the rocks. We let the sun burn down on us and the soft sound of the river flowing calm us._

_“And how will you know that?” Phil turns himself onto his side, facing me. “You know I won’t be okay by the end of today.”_

_“Well, of course not,” I reassure him. I turn my head to the side, looking him in the eyes. “I’m not letting you leave until you promise me you won’t try to kill yourself again.”_

_That makes Phil sigh - a heavy, frustrated, wishing I hadn’t shown up kind of sigh. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, a lot less agitated with me than he was before, like he’s almost accepted me. “Why do you care this much about someone you’ve only just met? My problems aren’t yours - and, as a piece of advice, you should keep it that way.”_

_I look back up at the sky, admiring it, and I take a long, deep breath. “Maybe this will sound crazy,” I mumble, still thinking and wording this as I go. “I’ve never had friends before, not real, true ones. I’ve never had someone I can go and talk to without feeling nervous. I’ve never even had a sick family member. So I’ve never had someone I could care for before. And, I don’t know, it was good to talk to someone for once when it doesn’t feel like I’m being forced to, like I’m trying to make something happen that we both don’t want. And when I saw you, about to hurt yourself, I don’t know what it was, but I suddenly felt like I couldn’t let you: I had to protect you.” I go silent for a moment, wondering what else I could say. Then I roll myself onto my side as well, mirroring Phil. “Maybe we won’t know each other for very long. But I care about you, and I will for however long we see each other. I want to be someone that you can talk to…” I clear my throat, realising that sounded a bit cheesy. “I mean, if you want.”_

_Phil stares at me for a moment. I hope he’s considering my offer. It would nice to finally have a friend, to have someone to care for._

_“Give me a reason to live,” he tells me, making me smile. “Promise me that, right now, and I swear to never try to end my life again.”_

_I want to hug him right now. “Sounds like a deal.”_

***

I didn’t stay there long - once Phil had disappeared, I silently made my way back home. He was right: I had gone to the river solely to dispose of the note, because, admittedly, I’ve found myself believing him - that this suicide note was faked. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe I only want it to be true so that we can appear to end on good terms. Maybe Phil, _this_ Phil, isn’t even real. Either way, I have to hear him out.

As soon as I’ve closed and locked the front door of my flat behind me, the phone goes off - my home phone, not my mobile. I sigh to myself, knowing who it is.

I answer it straight away. “Hello.”

“Dan?” the woman says on the other line. “It’s Miss Blake, from sixth form. You haven’t been noted present by any of your teachers today.” By that, she means the only  _two_ teachers that I would have had today: being Year 13 and only doing three A-levels means that I rarely have more than three lessons in a day. “Is it true that you haven’t been in?”

“Yes Miss Blake,” I mumble back. I’m not a liar.

She sighs down the line. “This isn’t like you, Dan,” she complains. “Are you sick?”

I consider that for the moment. “I think so.”

“You  _think_  so? What does that mean?”

I stay silent for a moment. “I mean, physically, I’m doing fine. My head just isn’t in the right place at the moment.”

“Ah,” she says finally, understanding. Miss Blake, the head of reception at my sixth form, knows me better than most students there. She helped me during the last few weeks of Year 12, after Phil had died. She even tried to cover for me in front of my parents. Most teachers don’t seem to care about your mental health, but Miss Blake has always seemed to really care about me. “Alright. Take as much time as you need. But remember: your exams start in three weeks.”

“I know,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Take care, Dan.”

She hangs up.

I put the phone back in its holder and walk myself to the kitchen. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I realise that it’s time for dinner. So I turn on the hot plate and start preparing some pasta.

As it cooks, I have to stay here, watching it and stirring constantly. Whilst I’m here, I start to hum to myself, not realising what song the tune belongs to, even after the lyrics come to me as well, and I quietly start to sing.

 _“Are the stars out tonight?_  
_I can’t tell if it’s cloudy or bright,_  
_‘Cause I only have eyes for you, dear._

_“The moon may be high,_  
_But I can’t see a thing in the sky,_  
_'Cause I only have eyes for you.”_

I turn on another hot plate and start heating up the sauce.

_“How could I live a day without you?  
I need your love to see me through._

_“You’re not here by my side._  
_Maybe millions of people pass by;_  
_But they all disappear from view_  
_'Cause I only have eyes for you.”_

“You used to love singing that.”

I jump, nearly dropping the strainer on the floor in my surprise.

Phil is here, in my kitchen, sitting almost normally at the table, as if waiting for his food.

“Why are you back?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer me. “It’s your favourite song from that musical. After your family took you to see it, you didn’t stop singing that for weeks, even when I asked you to.”

I stare at him. “You stopped asking me, though.”

To my surprise, Phil blushes. “Yeah,” he mumbles, looking down into his lap. “Because I liked hearing you sing. And it made you so happy. How could I keep telling you to stop?”

I don’t say anything to that. A part of me wants to ask him to stop talking about us, about the past. Another part of me wants to indulge myself in the nostalgia of happy days.

“I heard you on the phone,” Phil admits sheepishly, still not looking at me. “I want to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for coming back and interrupting your life. You were getting on well without me.” I notice him start clenching his fingers round his left wrist. “I shouldn’t have done this. I should’ve just left you alone.”

I walk over to the table and sit myself down opposite him, reaching my hands out, wanting to hold his - but I remember that I can’t, so I resort to setting them down on the table in front of his instead.

“Hey,” I start, making my voice as soft as I can. Phil finally looks at me. I hate how painfully familiar his sad expression is. “Have I ever not wanted you around?” He shakes his head, starting to smile. “I’ve missed you  _so_ much since you died. It’s been a fucking year, Phil. I’ve been desperate to see you again.” His eyes start to light up. “I’m so happy that you’ve come back, so don’t you dare think otherwise.”

His lips curl into a bright, unstoppable smile, and his cheeks start to turn pink again. Phil carefully reaches his hands forward until the tips of his fingers are touching mine, and I appreciate the cool chill that it creates for me.

“ _42nd Street_  isn’t my favourite musical, though,” I try to tease him.

Phil scoffs, as if offended. “I never said it was! I just said that you liked the show. It’s certainly been one of your favourites.”

“Do you know why?” I ask, feeling a small urge to test him.

His smile widens, but softens, making it more calm and natural, which is how I like it. “It’s the only tap-heavy show you’ve ever heard of,” Phil responds, dead-on hitting the mark. “Tap was always your favourite kind of dancing. Your dream was to perform in a production of  _42nd Street_ , wasn’t it?”

I find myself smiling too. “Yeah, it was.”

Silence gently builds between us, like a slowly filling pool. Neither of us seem to mind it - we never used to, anyway.

But I can sense something different from Phil, now. It’s like there’s something on his mind.

“I’m sorry about what happened with your mum,” he mumbles suddenly, sadly. I grit my teeth, wishing he hadn’t brought that up. “I never meant to hurt you like that.”

I scoff, not meaning to, but not regretting it. “If you didn’t want to hurt me, you shouldn’t have fucking killed yourself, Phil.”

His mouth falls open - I can’t tell whether he’s in shock, or he wants to say something, but he closes it after a moment.

I decide to keep going, shooting him a thin, sharp glare. “Do you know how painful it is to see you again? Of course, I’ve missed you, and I wanted you back, but this isn’t the same. I wanted us to go back to normal, like you were never dead, like we’d never fallen out. And you can try to act like we’re the same as before, but we’re not. This fucking hurts, Phil. Even with you back, it just hurts, and I thought it might be a good pain, like happy tears, but it isn’t. It’s like I’m finding you dead all over again, over and over, with every ordinary thing we do together now.” I take my hands away from his and clench my fingers into my palms, my nails biting into the flesh. “So stop trying to do that - pretending that we’ve gone back to normal. I can’t do it.”

Phil says nothing. He just stares at me blankly. I take a deep breath.

“You came back for a reason, didn’t you?”

Surely, Phil nods his head.

“Well, get it over with. Because I’m dying here, Phil: I’m dying to know the truth.” My palms start to sting, so I relax my hands. “Tell me why you had to die.”

Phil, thinking, drops his gaze to his lap. For a moment, he doesn’t say a word, but I wait expectantly.

He looks up at me again - this time, with tears in his eyes. His hands are starting to shake.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice weak. “I… I can't…”

Then he’s gone.

“ _Fuck!”_ I scream, slamming my hands on the table. I hear a sizzling behind me - shit, and I screwed up dinner too.

I throw the pasta away, refusing to eat, and climb into bed without a word.

What I feel this night is the same as what I felt the first night that me and Phil met. I was expecting to feel giddy, having him in my life, like I was finally feeling whole. But what I felt was fear. That night, I worried that I would never see Phil again, that he might have ignored me - and why not? I was a stranger - and he may already be dead, at any second, and I would be doing nothing to save him. I worried that I had taken on far too much, that I would never be able to salvage him from ruin, and seeing him die would be far harder for me than it would have been by that river.

What I feel tonight is frustration and overwhelm. I thought I would be happy to see Phil again, when all hope seemed lost. But, instead, a part of me is desperate to know what he wants to tell me, and another part is terrified for what that knowledge is. Mostly, I fear that I am his reason. I don’t want that to be true, least of all hear it from his own mouth.

I struggle to sleep that night. For June, this night is exceptionally cold.

_The end of year music evening still goes ahead, despite a week filled with trouble and torment for both the sixth form students and its teachers._

_The thing is, when a student dies, the action the school takes afterwards is always the same, regardless of whether anyone knew them. There are assemblies, and pre-made powerpoints, bringing to light the latest school’s tragedy - the_ school’s _, specifically. If it was suicide, then they start loads of counselling and anti-suicide campaigns to show that they’re taking action against it happening again. The powerpoints are probably the same ones for each student that it happens to. The school probably know that they can’t ever prevent the next suicide. Most likely, my guess? All of this is only for show._

_I know this because Phil wasn’t known. He wasn’t cared about. He even went to my secondary school and I never took any notice of him until the summer preceding sixth form. To the students, and the sixth form, and the secondary school conjoined to our sixth form, Phil was nothing but a face for the campaign. He was the face of suicide, and nothing more. He was an example._

_Some people probably thought he wasn’t real._

_One of the reasons, I claim, for not noticing Phil in secondary school was that I spent most of my time in the drama and music departments. That was partly down to my parents making sure that I went (not that I didn’t want to go, of course). This trend didn’t end once I’d joined the sixth form either - in fact, staff seemed to want me to perform even more than they did before. Well, my year was lacking in thespians anyway._

_The evening goes as usual, with groups and soloists from different years performing something beautiful (the arts teachers never let annoying wanna-be singers in the show with some dull pop song). Then the final act is me. I had agreed to this a while ago. I never thought it would turn out to be as tough as this._

_He’s all I can think about._

_Even now, standing in the wings and waiting for my name to be called, my heart feels horribly heavy. I don’t know if I can do this. I can barely stand, let alone sing. There’s a great unbearable lump wedged in my throat that I can’t swallow down. My hands are already covered in sweat._

_The worst thing about this is that the biggest problem isn’t just breaking down and messing up the song: it’s my mum._

_“And finally, to end our night - ” Mrs Sambi calls out once she’s finished the thanks and congratulations to the parents “ - we have a performance of_ Tell Me It’s Not True  _by our wonderful Daniel Howell!”_

_The auditorium fills with applause, so I take a deep breath in and step out of the wings, making my nervous way over to the mic, centre, downstage, in front of everyone. In front of my parents._

_I lift my gaze over all of their heads, to the tall wall behind them, and I breathe in slowly._

_The music starts - a gentle tune in treble clef on piano. The introduction comes to an end. I try not to hold my breath._

“Tell me it’s not true.  
Say it’s just a story.  
Something on the news.”

_Another breath in, shaky._

“Tell me it’s not true,  
Though it’s here before me.  
Say it’s just a dream.  
Say it’s just a scene,  
From an old movie of years ago,  
From an old movie of Marilyn Monroe.

"Say it’s just some clowns;  
Two players in the limelight.  
And bring the curtain down.”

_That lump in my throat gets bigger, more unbearable._

_I can’t stop thinking about him._

“Say it’s just two clowns,  
Who couldn’t get their lines right.”

_My voice starts to break, the song’s pitch getting more demanding._

“Say it’s just a show, on the radio,  
That we can turn over and start again;  
That we can start over; it’s only a game.”

 _My vision starts to blur -_ fuck,  _I can’t be crying. I breathe in again, but my chest cuts it short. My bottom lip starts to shake. I can’t keep it together. I can’t do this. My stomach starts to twist up, the colour black clouding my mind. I feel like I’m going to throw up, like I need to get it out._

“Tell me it’s not true.  
Say I only dreamed it.  
And morning will come soon.”

_I bring a hand to my throat, squeezing gently. I don’t think I can carry on. I don’t want to keep feeling like this: I hate it._

“Tell me it’s not true.  
Say you didn’t mean it.”

_My voice really breaks, the urge to burst into tears overwhelming me to a helpless extent, and I convulse as if punched, clinging to the mic stand. I’m not singing anymore - I’m yelling._

“Say it’s just pretend!  
Say it’s just the end,  
Of an old movie from years ago - ”

_My voice finally fails me. I stop singing, falling silent altogether, having my tears take me over. I bring my hand to my mouth, trying to shut myself up._

_I look out into the audience. The parents look shocked. The teachers are almost crying too. My parents, though - my mum: my mum looks pissed._

_I rush off the stage, into the wings, and out the stage door. It’s night out here now. I lean against the back wall, covering my face with my hands, and cry loudly. My stomach twists up horridly._

_“_ Fuck! _” I scream out, letting my despair overwhelm me, letting the black consume me from the inside. I wish he wasn’t dead. I wish he was still here with me._

_The door swings violently open and out comes my mum, looking enraged as she fists the collar of my shirt and slams me against the cold brick wall of the school. I cry out at the pain and clutch onto her wrists with my hands, attempting to glare her down, but it’s hard when you’re weak with tears._

_“You little shit!” She screams, hitting me against the wall again. “You knew him! You really were friends with that kid!”_

_I sharpen my eyes at her like I never have before, but my bottom lip still trembles. “Of course I was! And I’m grieving, mum!”_

_She forces my head to smack against the bricks. “Shut up!” she demands, though her gesture could have said that well enough. “You knew the rules. And this… this emotional crap is exactly what they were for. This is what you get for not listening to me. And what has it done? It ruined your performance - the one most important thing in your life.”_

_I want to spit at her, but I know what that would get me. “Phil was important to me too!” I yell back, trying to dig my nails into her flesh. “Theatre isn’t everything in my life.”_

_“Well it should be,” she scoffs. She still won’t let me go. “The minute you get home, I’m taking away your devices - phone, laptop, everything. No more distractions. I’ll make sure this never happens again.”_

_“No.” I glare at her, seeing red, feeling a greatly strong urge to punch her, which I’ve never had before. “I’m moving out.”_

_There. The relief. A impulsive decision, yes, but a good one._

_But my mum isn’t shocked. Instead, she glares at me more harshly. “Then I’m cutting you off - no more dance, singing or piano lessons for you.”_

_My eyes widen. “No, you can’t - ”_

_“Choose, Dan,” she scoffs, knowing she’s got me in a headlock. “You can have a career, or a social life. But you should have learnt by now that you can’t have both.”_

_She finally lets me go. I fix my collar and, in the process, subtly rub my collar bone where she’d been grabbing. But I won’t back down. “I’m moving out, mum. There’s nothing you can do about it.”_

_Her face stays blank, but her eyes say betrayal. “Fine. You have the summer. Then you’re no longer my son.”_

_That sounds like a dream._

***

It’s Saturday, the weekend, so I don’t have to worry about facing the teachers for another couple of days. Instead, however, I do have to go to the secondary school building, because on Saturday mornings they hold children’s dance classes in there. This is the one thing my mum couldn’t take away from me, because my presence in these classes is entirely voluntary.

The first class, at nine o’clock, is baby ballet - Miss Marie wanted me especially to help with this class because I’m the only male teaching assistant the school has at the moment, and little four-year-olds tend to hold quite stereotypical views about whether boys do ballet or not. The second class is junior musical theatre, and the third is the seniors. The seniors are Year 7 and up, so being Year 13 I’m still suitable to be assisting.

“Morning!” Marie sings, unusually chirpy for a Saturday morning. I just groan back: of course I love coming to these classes, but the hour is far too early. We’ve just come back from half term, a week later than the schools. “We’ll be working on our show dances, Dan, so would you be able to stand in as our King Mouse for today? It would be such a huge help.”

I sigh, feeling a little frustrated. “So we’re still waiting on the Queen, then?”

Miss Marie sighs too - show term is always far too stressful for the teachers. “You know her situation. It’s exam season.”

“I know. It is for me as well.”

Then she places a hand on my shoulder, showing me a sad sort of smile. “Of course. But she has other dances in the show on top of this one.”

I look away from her then, growing sad again myself.

“We would love to have you back, Dan. You could be their King Mouse for the show - they all know you so well. You won’t have to pay anything for that.”

I refuse to look at her. “You know my mum. She won’t hear of me coming back.” She’s still one of the school’s biggest sponsors - if she finds out that they’ve taken me back against her orders, then she’ll cut her funding. All the teachers know that, including Marie.

Her hand falls from my shoulder.

“We’re lucky to have you, Dan,” she hums. Her mouth curls into a forced smile, but there’s still sadness in her eyes. It makes my stomach churn. “What happened with your mum is a real shame. You had so much potential.” What she means, that breaks my heart, is that I could have gone on to become a professional. But I never completed my Intermediate exams for ballet, tap and modern, which means that no school will take me. I guess that was my mum’s intention. And of course I can’t pay for them myself: the classes will cost over £100 for the term, and the exam will be nearly £200.

I walk away, distracting myself by unpacking her speakers.

Whilst she’s gone to the bathroom to ‘freshen up’ (i.e. put on all of her make-up), the hall is left to me. So I’m not that surprised when Phil shows up before me.

“She’s right, you know?” he tells me. He’s sitting on the chair I’ve placed beside Marie’s things, swinging his legs slowly beneath him. “You really do have potential.”

I refuse to say anything, in case someone hears.

“I always wanted to come and watch your classes.” I glance over to him, thinking he’s going to be mocking me - but no, he’s smiling happily, like he’s content. “And now I can. I’ve watched every Saturday class since the start of this year.” I widen my eyes at him. Has he really? My cheeks involuntarily start to flush, which only makes him smile more. “Don’t act so shy. You liked performing for me the most.”

I hear Miss Marie coming, so I turn away, hoping she won’t suspect anything. By the time she lets the little ones in, the chair is already empty again.

Or maybe it isn’t. If Phil has been around me all this time, what’s to say that he’s only here when I can see him?

Strangely, as much as the thought should make me nervous, it only makes me smile.

***

_I go back, fingers trembling, to the river the next day. We didn’t exactly agree to meet here again, but I might as well try - who knows? Phil might have been coming here every day._

_It’s incredibly hot today. By the time I’ve walked all the way down, I’m practically sweating. I peer through the trees and try to suppress my smile: Phil is here again._

_“Hey,” I call, walking out and sitting down on the rocks opposite him. I wish there was a bridge here so I could go over and see him, just to be safe, because he was right yesterday - when I’m over here, there’s not much I can do. “I didn’t think I’d find you here.”_

_Phil glances up at me - I except some kind of glare, or at least a dismissive scoff or shrug, but he’s almost smiling at me. He looks away again, into his lap. “Don’t lie,” he mumbles quietly. “You came here looking for me. I knew you’d do that.”_

_I take my shoes off as we talk, and my socks, and dip my toes into the water - it’s refreshingly chilly for such a warm day. “Is that why you came here too? To see me?”_

_Now, at that, he lets out a light laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself - I came to give you your hoodie back.”_

_I frown, searching him, because he isn’t hold one. And then I see it._

_“Shit, are you wearing it?” Not looking at me, Phil nods his head. “But it’s boiling! You’re going to cook yourself in there! Why did you put it on in the first place?”_

_He shrugs. “I needed to. I wore it ever since you left last night. I liked reminding myself that you existed, that you cared about me.” Phil takes the front of the jacket into his hands and tugs it tighter, starting to smile at its comfort. “It helped me not to cut last night. But don’t worry - there was some blood on it, so I cleaned it for you this morning.”_

_I tilt my head, trying very hard to keep my smile down, but when I see the slight blush that lays on his cheeks, I can’t help but let my joy show._

_“I want to ask,” Phil continues, looking directly at me again. “Why do you suddenly care about me now? You never seemed to look around before.”_

_At that, I laugh lightly. “What are you talking about? I’ve cared since I first saw you.”_

_But Phil shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t know.”_

_“Know what?”_

_“That I know you.” My smile drops, listening intently. “Everyone does. You’re that singer kid in our year who performs in every bloody assembly.” My jaw practically drops. “Don’t get me wrong - you’re good. But it’s hard for me to care about other people when they ignore me all the time.” Phil starts to fold into himself more. “You didn’t even know that we’ve been at school together for the last five years.”_

_I find that I can’t say anything to that._

_“So, back to my question:” Phil resumes. “Why would someone so popular care about a loser like me?”_

_I just blink. “Popular? No no, you’ve got it wrong! I’m not popular - I’m just a theatre nerd. I guess I’ve always been too busy to notice you before.” I find my voice drifting off, growing sad. If I had been able to know Phil before, I may have been able to save him better than I can now._

_Phil doesn’t say much to that. “I understand.”_

_He takes off the hoodie and holds it in his hands, taking a moment to think. “I think, rather than one of us swimming across again, we should find somewhere else to go so I can give this to you.”_

_I let out a chuckle, but agree, standing up with him and starting to walk down the river bank._

_“Where are we going exactly?” I ask him after a few minutes - it’s far too hot to be walking for too long. “Do you have a place in mind or are you trying to get me lost?”_

_“I know where we’re going,” Phil assures me. “It’s a shallower spot - we can walk across it.”_

_I nod to that and keep following him._

_We reach the spot soon after, and I take a moment to simply admire it: there are willow trees overhanging the river and the shallower point that Phil mentioned is a small waterfall, so bubbles form at the bottom and the air fills with the soothing sounds of rushing water. It flows a little faster here, after the waterfall._

_“It’s beautiful,” I gasp, not meaning to say it out loud._

_“I know,” Phil simply says back, smiling at me._

_He walks over the waterfall - it appears to be man-made or at least has been eroding for quite a few years, as the rocks beneath the water here are incredibly (and safely) flat and smooth - and over to me, holding out the hoodie._

_“Here,” he grins. “You can have it back now.”_

_I place my hands on it, but stop, reconsidering. “No. You can keep it, if it means that much to you.” I smile with him. “That’s what I promised, isn’t it?”_

_Phil doesn’t say anything for a while. He appears to be thinking, but in his eyes, there’s something like a smile. Then he lets it grow on his face, seeming to make his whole being glow. It makes me high with giddiness._

_“Thank you,” he mumbles, taking the hoodie back and squeezing it tightly. “I’ll cherish it.”_

When I get home, I finish looking through the box of his things -  _our_ things, actually - and I pull out that little black hoodie. On the left breast, etched, is a design of a rose, without the thorns, a soft bright pink in colour with dark red highlights. Phil liked that part the most - he’d explained to me what it all meant, at some point. He used to talk about a lot of things like that. His favourite subject was English, after all.

 _“Within my heart a rose began to grow,_  
_Encouraged by the poppy’s opium._  
_The drug bled through, the petals start to glow,_  
_With colours showing dreams Utopian.”_

I sing the words aloud, not meaning to, their familiar softness like water on my tongue, like sinking into a warm bath. My lips form a light smile at their return - the shape of the words demands a smile.

“You remember,” Phil’s voice cries, practically breathless. He appears before me this time, playing his fingers gently over the embroidered rose on the hoodie in my hands. He’s not looking at it, though - his eyes, wide and shining, are focused on me. He can’t pull his jaw back closed. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

I smile brightly back at him. “Of course not. How could I forget?”

A sweet blush starts to glow from Phil’s cheeks, and he disappears again.

But, this time, as his space becomes empty, I call out for him to come back. Maybe there’s something on my mind. Maybe it’s the memory of the song.

“Wait!” I cry out. “Don’t go just yet! I hate it when you do that.”

Complying, Phil returns, standing in front of me looking rather sheepish. “When I do what?”

“When you disappear mid-conversation! How do you decide when to show up, huh? You’re obviously listening to me somehow. Where do you go when you’re not here in front of me?”

Phil walks himself over to the sofa and sits himself down - he must think we’re going to be here for a while. “I’m always here, Dan. I don’t just disappear. You simply can’t see me anymore.” Then he sighs. “I’ve been doing it for ages.”

I blink at him. Then I take my seat opposite him. “So… you’re always around? Even when I can’t see you?” Phil nods his head. “Then why are you doing that? Why do you feel the need to hide?”

He stares at me for a moment, thinking, then he looks away, twisting his fingers nervously together. “As much as I want it, you can’t suddenly make your life about me now that I’m here again. You have to keep going like I’m not alive, because I’m not.” From the angle I’m sitting at, I can just about see Phil’s face contort uncomfortably. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be around. I can’t see a future where I’m still with you.”

The urge to grab onto his hands grows inside me again, so I clench my hands into fists to suppress it. “Don’t talk like that. I don’t want to think about losing you again.”

Phil doesn’t say anything to that.

“You don’t, like, watch me all the time, do you?” I ask quietly, trying to change the subject back.

At the implication, Phil lets himself chuckle. “I don’t watch you in the bathroom, Dan. I’m not weird.” I want to hit him for that. “But I… I’ve been around at night, as you sleep. There’s nowhere else for me to go.” He loses his smile again just as quickly - he was never able to keep it for long. Side effect of depression, I think. “I found that, if I laid my hand on your head when you try to sleep, I could affect you. You weren’t sleeping well for a while after my death, and I wanted so badly to be able to help you that I tried anything, even holding you. And I found that it worked. You used to shiver, though, any time I touched you.” I try to remember those nights, any of them, when I felt strangely cold in the heat of a summer night. “But if I did - if I had my hand on you as you slept - you would dream about me. I enjoyed it at first, because it was like I was dreaming too: we would be together, in your head, like we used to before. You looked so happy. But then you’d wake up, and you’d cry so hard, and I realised that I couldn’t keep doing that. It wasn’t good for you.” His fingers tighten around each other. “I knew then that you needed to forget about me.”

I try to open my mouth and object, but Phil beats me to it.

“This may end like one of those dreams, Dan. You might be happy with me now, but if I disappear for good, you might wake up to far worse pain than on any of those mornings.”

He turns to me then, tears in his eyes. It seems he can cry.

“So don’t get attached. Just in case. We should have made that promise long ago.”

For a moment, I don’t say anything. I just breathe in.

I reach over to Phil and try placing my hand on his, not knowing what else to do. It falls through him. So I draw away.

“Shit,” I breathe out at last. “You’re really gloomy, you know. I’d forgotten that.” I force myself to laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve dealt with pain before. I coped with your suicide without having any explanations or closure. All life ends in pain, Phil, so why should I surrender my happiness to fear?” I lean forwards until my eyes are in line with his, forcing Phil to look at me. “Don’t fade away anymore. I want you always by my side. Except in the bathroom.” A laugh escapes him, but he forces the smile down. “I’m not letting you go.”

Strangely, finally, Phil looks at me and honestly lets himself smile. That kindles a small fire of joy in my chest.

I go to the bathroom to undress and wash up, ready for bed. Phil doesn’t follow me, but I can’t be certain that he won’t have hidden by the time I open the door again.

I come out of the bathroom and lay my eyes of Phil, sitting in the kitchen, smiling contently. I find a similar soft smile forming itself on my lips, glad to see him still here.

“Stay the night with me,” I ask shyly. Phil’s eyes widen at that request. “Please. I want you to stay.”

His smile gets helplessly bigger, and he complies.

I realise, as we get into bed, that there are a lot of things about Phil that are very different to what I’m used to. I forget that, in a sense, he isn’t here. When I try to hold the covers up for him to slid under, he gives me a sad look, and when I drop it down he lays himself on top of it. Phil tells me that he won’t get cold, and that the bed can’t give him any sense of comfort. And I can’t really comprehend these things, because in my eyes he looks just like he always did. He doesn’t glow and isn’t transparent (I guess, only when I can see him). Phil looks exactly how I left him. Thinking like that, he might still be seventeen; he might be frozen a year behind me.

“We never did this before,” I sigh. I lie facing him, staring, my bedside lamp still on, because I can’t get enough of this view: Phil laying with me, sleeping over. I’ve never had a sleepover before.

“Did what?” Phil whispers back. “Spend the night together?” I nod my head sleepily. He frowns at that. “Yes we have. Of course we have.” His expression gets sadder. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that night.”

I frown back. He’s acting like this particular night was incredibly important, but I have no clue what night he’s talking about. “When?” I ask back.

“The end of year camp-out,” he replies with. “On the school field. Year 12.” Tears start to well in his eyes. “You can’t have let yourself forget. That will hurt.”

“Hey,” I try to soothe him, reaching my hand over to him. “It’s alright. I remember now. We shared a tent together.” I expect that to make Phil happier, but he only seems to get sadder. “You know I drank a lot that night. I couldn’t remember a thing in the morning. I’m sorry I forgot about it.” I smile at him. “I’m glad we really did a spend a night together, then. I always wanted to.”

For a long moment, Phil’s expression doesn’t change. In fact, it seems to contort with confusion. And then his whole face lights up. “You mean… all this time, you’ve never remembered that night?” His tears return, but this isn’t the same - his eyes are bright, like he’s happy. I frown at him again. But Phil lets out a breathy laugh in relief. “Thank god! This changes everything!”

I don’t understand. What’s going on?

“I thought you hated me. You never hated me, did you? You didn’t hate me the day that I died?”

I’m confused, but I shake my head. “Of course I didn’t hate you. We were best friends. How could you think I hated you?”

Phil thought that I hated him? So the words, in that note, they may have been true?

I watch his hands twitch - the desperate craving to touch me, as I recognise - but still, Phil lets a huge smile crowd his face, and instead brings his hands to cover his mouth with an ecstatic laugh. “I was so scared to face you again. But I could have come to you sooner. You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”

I don’t say a word, deciding to let Phil have his moment.

“Sorry,” he sighs, calming himself down. “We should sleep.”

I want to ask so many questions right now. But I decide against it. “Okay,” I respond. Tucking myself back under my covers.

Phil stays silent for a moment. But it doesn’t last long. “I don’t sleep, Dan,” he admits.

“Oh,” is all I can say back.

“Could we… umm… you see, the whole dreaming thing with you kind of made me feel like I was dreaming too, so could we… maybe…?”

Strangely, at his suggestion, a smile forms on my lips. After my old experiences, after the torment those dreams caused me, I’m surprised to find myself excited by the idea. But I guess this is different, because Phil isn’t just in my head this time. When I wake up, he will be here with me.

I tighten my fingers nervously round the edge of my pillow and agree to Phil’s suggestion, making his eyes brighten with joy. I close my eyes and breathe slowly as Phil places his hand on my head, resting his palm on my cheek, which sends a cooling sensation through my skin, and I feel myself drifting peacefully to sleep.

_I sit on the waterfall, my bum getting wet, my legs completely soaked. I must have been here for a while already. I feel like I’m waiting for something. I’m uncannily lonely._

_“Hey,” a voice calls, and I feel my heart jump with happiness. Phil walks over and takes his seat next to me. “It’s kind of cold here,” he gasps as his bum hits the water._

_“Yeah,” I shrug. “But I like it. It’s too warm today.”_

_Phil hums back in agreement._

_We don’t say anything else. After a while, I shuffle myself over to Phil and he wraps his arm around me, holding me close, and I gratefully rest my head on his shoulder. I let out a deep sigh. His touch is warm. I miss it so much. I don’t know why I do, because he’s here - Phil is with me, like he always is. He hasn’t gone away. But, even so, there’s this strange craving in my chest, an awkward pain, that makes this embrace feel sad all of a sudden. It feels like this is usually missing._

_“Phil,” I call. He hums back. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”_

_“Of course not. You’re stuck with me for good.”_

_I make myself believe him, relaxing into his hold. “Do you think we’ll always be friends?”_

_Phil strokes his fingers along my arm, trying to soothe me. “I know it.”_

_I let myself smile and enjoy the moment. It feels frozen, like I always want our time to be. Endless._

I wake up, already feeling the dream slip away. I gently stretch my legs and open my eyes. One of my arms is under my pillow, the other lays in front of me, bent at the elbow. Strangely, my hand feels cold, like if it were the only body part exposed to the cold night air. Then, before me, I see Phil appear, his eyes open unusually wide for a morning, and, sweetly, his hand resting over mine. I look down at our hands, and my chest suddenly feels warm inside. A smile reaches my face, and I see Phil looking the same.

He’s here. Phil is really here with me, in my bed, when I wake up.

***

I take Phil down to one of our favourite spots - the waterfall - since we spent most of our time there together throughout the summer before sixth form. I walk him to the river, where we first met, and then I move us down to the waterfall.

“Please tell me you didn’t always walk this way to get there,” he groans at me. “It’s so much longer. Didn’t you ever find a quicker route?”

I just chuckle softly. “I did, but I liked reminding myself of our time here. Especially when you were gone.”

He doesn’t say anything more to that.

Once we reach the waterfall, I sit myself down in the slow-flowing water on the rocks and I watch Phil join me. Must be nicer for him now - he doesn’t get wet or feel the cold. We didn’t come here so much once sixth form had started.

“So…” Phil starts, voice soft and easily heard over the sound of the waterfall. “Why are we here?”

“You should know.” I play my fingers through the water by my side and let myself smile. “If you’ve been watching me for this long, then you definitely should know.”

Phil sighs, and I see him face his head outwards over the river ahead of us. “You come here every Sunday,” he finally supplies.

I hum a yes in confirmation. So he really has been around this whole time.

Silence grows between us. Songs of the birds fill the air around us from time to time. I’ve never hated the atmosphere here - in fact, I’ve always found it comforting.

“So what did you think of me,” Phil asks suddenly, “in the end?” I look over to him, wondering what he really means. “Did you consider me a friend?”

Now I know what he’s talking about.

_Summer, a couple of weeks in. We’d been coming here every day together since we first met. Phil sits next to me, on my left, waving his legs in and out of the waterfall’s flow. If I was mistaken, I would interpret that to mean he was bored. But I know Phil better now - he likes being idle. He takes comfort in small pleasures. He’s an introvert. That’s why we never talk that much._

_“If I was wrong about you being popular,” he starts to ask suddenly, out of the blue. I turn my head to him to show that I’m listening, but it’s hard not to pay attention if I were ever to try. “Where are your friends? I never saw you with anyone around school.”_

_I watch him, staring at me expectantly, and I let myself smile softly. “Exactly how much attention were you paying to me all these years?”_

_Suddenly, unexpectedly, Phil’s face turns bright red. “I wasn’t stalking you, dummy!” I laugh at that. “Stop flattering yourself. I only pay attention to people who don’t seem horrid. I never really knew you, but you didn’t seem like a bad person.” Then Phil folds his arms. “I guess I was wrong.”_

_I giggle and gently nudge his shoulder with my fist. “No please, you were right! I was only playing you.” A smile reaches Phil’s face again and he drops his arms down._

_“So,” he continues. “Can I have an answer?”_

_At that, I sigh, and look away from him. “It’s a bit complicated…” I whine. “I don’t exactly have any friends.”_

_Silence again. “What do you mean?”_

_I struggle with how to word this. “I… Umm, I’m not exactly… allowed… to have friends.”_

_For a moment, Phil says nothing, and my face begins to shrivel into itself in fear of being judged, or worse: laughed at._

_“I don’t understand,” is what Phil finally says, his voice keeping soft as though trying not to startle me. He shuffles himself a little closer to me, but I still refuse to look at him. “How aren’t you allowed? Is that your choice, or someone else’s?”_

_I swallow nervously. “My mum’s,” I force out, my voice starting to shake. “I’ve never told anyone about this before.”_

_“It’s okay,” Phil reassures, his voice falling even softer. Then, he reaches out, and lays his hand on top of mine. “Don’t be shy about it. I’m not going to hurt you for it.”_

_I believe him. I’ve never trusted another human being so strongly in my life._

_“She’s always said that friends are nothing more than a distraction,” I explain, trying to keep myself composed. I feel much safer talking about this with Phil now, as though our little bubble has been fortified. “School is for learning and working hard, not for socialising and having fun - that’s what childhood is for. So once I reached secondary school, she banned me from having any friends, because this was the time to focus. During breaks and lunches, I would either stay in the music department, drama department, or the library, depending on what work I had to do.”_

_I run out of things to say._

_For a while, I wonder if Phil is going to say anything - what would he say, to a thing like that?_

_“So that’s why,” he mumbles. “That’s why you cared so much about me. Now all that stuff you said makes sense.”_

_I try to recall what I’d said:_

“I’ve never had friends before, not real, true ones. I’ve never had someone I can go and talk to without feeling nervous. I’ve never even had a sick family member. So I’ve never had someone I could care for before.”

_The memory makes me smile._

_“So what am I then,” Phil says suddenly, his voice slightly harsher than before, “to you?”_

_I consider that deeply. “I don’t even know.”_

_His hand falls away from mine._

_“But you’re illegal for me, whatever this is. I don’t know what it means to call someone my friend. But whatever we have might as well be a friendship.”_

_I gaze back up at Phil, hoping that’s enough. And, to my desperate relief, he’s smiling brightly._

I sigh sadly at the memory. I’m amazed even Phil remembers that.

“You were always a friend,” I respond confidently, no longer shying away from such a concept. “You were - are - my best friend. You always will be.”

Strangely, this time, Phil isn’t smiling as much. He doesn’t seem satisfied. He lowers his head to the river before us, averting his eyes from me.

“I guess… that night…” Then he shakes his head, throwing the thought away. “You know, this place was always special to me. It was where I first realised that I liked you.”

My heart tightens at those words. I stare at him, my heart beating faster, desperate for him to keep talking. But Phil still won’t look at me. In fact, he almost looks like he’s mourning.

“It was the end of summer, a few days before we were about to go to sixth form. We stayed here together until the sun set. It wasn’t a very special day in particular, really.” He brings his hands together and starts to weave his fingers between each other. “Maybe it was because of the way the light fell on you as the sun was setting, or maybe it was because you let us hold each other as it was getting colder. But when I looked at you that day, I felt this pain, like… like you’d caught a hook in me, and if I moved too far away it would yank and hurt too much. I found this urge to stay close to you, and my heart raced when I looked at you so close to me. At first, it wasn’t comforting - it was terrifying. And I ran away that day, because… because I realised I was desperate to know what it might be like to kiss you.”

Phil finally looks at me then, with a heavy blush on his cheeks, and I realise I’ve definitely seen that look - that intensity of the look - on him before.

_It was a Sunday - sixth form was going to start on the next Wednesday, so the Year 12s would have the rest of the week without the older, more accustomed Years 13s for us to adjust to the new place and new routine._

_Phil sits beside me, on my right, resting his shoulder against mine, and my arm is wrapped and resting on his other shoulder, letting him lay on me. We spend the day without many words falling between us - instead, we watch the sunset. We haven’t done that before. We’ve never stayed out this late. But I’m reluctant to go home today: dance starts back up again from tomorrow._

_I realise, after a while, that Phil isn’t looking out as the sun sets over the horizon right in front of us: I know this because I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my head. When I turn my head to look at him, his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush a bright pink, similar to the shade the sky is turning now._

_“What?” I ask him, giggling to myself. “Are we too close?”_

_Phil nods his head quickly and I shuffle myself away._

_“Sorry,” I laugh, taking my arm away from his shoulders. “I got too comfortable. Let me know next time, okay?”_

_Phil doesn’t answer that this time. He’s still staring at me._

_“Do you think - “ he blurts out suddenly. “ - do you think we’ll still hang out after summer? Will you still stay with me in sixth form?”_

_The intensity of this outburst startles me. I hadn’t realised that Phil felt so strongly about me staying by his side until now. “Of course,” I answer back, smiling. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”_

_Phil smiles so happily at my response._

_Then he looks away, covering his face, and makes to leave. “I’m sorry - I… I have to go.” He starts to run off before I can call him back. “See you tomorrow!”_

_The next day, I forget to ask why he had to leave so soon._

“You knew,” Phil says bluntly. “You already knew that I liked you. Don’t act so surprised like that.”

This time, under his eyes, I find myself being the one to blush.

“I know,” I finally admit. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you that I knew. I just… I couldn’t find the courage.” I glance down into my lap again, feeling ashamed. That was one of the main reasons why Phil’s death hurt me so much for so long afterwards: the feeling of lost opportunity, of lost closure. Phil had felt so strongly towards me and I never confronted him about it. It must have hurt him so much.

Maybe that’s why… Is it all my fault?

“We should go home now…” I struggle out, voice wavering, my arms shaking as I push myself up off the floor. “I need to shower and wash all this off.”

Phil doesn’t stop me. There isn’t much he could do anyway except talk to me. I find, as I walk back home, that he’s not next to me.

I reach the bathroom without him coming back. I take off my clothes, turn the shower on, and step inside. I’ll need to wash those jeans thoroughly, like I used to before mum got home and wondered where I’d been. She never knew where I had been going in the summer - I told her I was going to practise my singing, somewhere quiet, since I was always such a loud singer. She never asked where - all she cared about was my devotion.

I find myself unable to hold back any longer, and the urge to cry overwhelms me - tears fall heavily down my face and my sobs are stifled by the loud sounds of the shower. I try to wipe my tears away but I only make my face wetter, so I soon stop trying. It doesn’t matter how bad I look anyway - Phil isn’t here to see me. He doesn’t see me in the shower.

An idea comes to me then, and, as bitter as I feel about it, it entices me.

I reach into the cupboard just outside the shower door and rummage through, finding a pack of razors that my mum had brought me for my last dance show - it was at the end of Year 12, right before Phil’s death. I break one apart until I can force the blade free, and as I hold it in my hands,  I already feel terrified.

I’ve never done this before. I’ve never even considered it. But what better time to give in than now?

I bring the blade, with wavering breath, to my right wrist, watching my left fingers tremble. It can’t be that bad. Phil used to do it a lot - I saw loads of scars along his wrist before they all healed up.

Why should I do this? I know it’s unhealthy. I know it’s a mistake. But why can’t I make a bad decision?

I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing it for Phil: I need to feel his pain. I need to suffer, like he did, like I made him.

After all, his suicide, it was all my fault. I killed him.

With that thought, my grip tightens, and I drag the blade across my wrist, hissing out at the pain. That hurts way more than I ever thought it would. I’ve barely even broken the skin. Such a weird sight, seeing my blood start to surface.

But I deserve it. Phil liked me and I never acknowledged it. I never told him. I should have told him.

I cut across again, tears starting to well in my eyes.

He died because I pushed him away. He needed me and I ignored him, because I’m selfish, because I probably never really cared about him anyway: everything we did, I only did it for myself.

I slice through my skin again, trying not to cry out. When I pull away, I see the whole line covered in blood. That was a deep one. My wrist starts to throb. I drop the blade and start to cry again.

I’m a mess. Phil shouldn’t have died. But I deserve to.

After a while, I wash away the blood, wrap a bandage around my wrist, and wear a tight long-sleeved jumper to bed. Phil shows up again once I open the bathroom door. I hope he can’t see that I’ve been crying. I don’t want him to know what I’ve just done - he’ll try to tell me I don’t deserve it, and I’ll know that he’s lying.

Phil has always been too good to me.

***

The next day, I get ready for school. Phil still hangs around me, visible, just like I asked him to. But he hasn’t said anything since yesterday. There’s an awkward silence between us again; something unspoken. But I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet.

Once I open the front door, ready to go, I glance back over my shoulder to see Phil still sitting on my sofa, not looking like he’s going to move but watching me like he’s not going to stop.

I frown. “What are you going to do today?” I ask him. “Are you staying by my side, or keeping your distance?”

Phil just blinks. “You know I don’t have to walk everywhere, right? I can take myself wherever I want in an instant.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know that before, but it makes sense.

“I’ll join you on the way,” Phil says, standing himself up. Then he shows me a smile. “I’m not going to leave you anytime soon.”

I force a smile back at him before I make my way out the door, locking it behind me.

As promised, Phil shows up beside us as soon as I’m on the street, walking with me all the way to the sixth form building - which is forty minutes away. It would be okay, if we weren’t stuck in this silence again. We’ve never suffered with this before, not when Phil was alive.

“Dan,” he starts suddenly, which makes my hairs stand on end anxiously. “Please, I can’t stand this anymore. Will you just talk to me?”

I grit my teeth, continuing to walk. “About what?”

“You know what,” he shoots back. Phil appears right in front of me and I squeal, jumping back. My eyes immediately dart around us, making sure no one saw that - I don’t think anyone else can see Phil. When I look back at him, his eyes have sharpened into a terrifying glare. “Do you think I’d say such a thing for the hell of it? We both knew that you already knew that I liked you. It wasn’t a passing comment - I was drawing your attention to it.”

“And so what? What do you want me to say?”

Phil doesn’t say anything - he’s thinking, but he can’t come up with anything good enough. Impatient, I resume my journey - walking right through him.

He appears again in front of me, but I just keep walking. And again. Phil lets out a frustrated groan.

“Stop it!” he cries out.

“Why should I?” I yell back. “Is this it? This is reason you came back - to hear what I have to say about your feelings?”

Phil glares at me harshly, angrily - he’s never been  _angry_ at me before. He looks like he might cry. “I hate arguing with you,” he cries. “That’s not why I approached you. You’re so blind, Dan; you only see what you want to and never any further. You don’t even know why I’m dead.”

Now I feel like I might cry out of anger as well. “Of course I do!”

“You don’t! You can’t know! Everything you’ve done because of me since I’ve died has told me that, clear as day.” Phil steps closer to me and I find myself stepping back. “You don’t have a single clue why I’m dead, and that hurts.” Then he lets out a harsh sigh and looks away from me. “I don’t want to hear what you think about how I feel towards to you: I want to know if you’re ashamed, and if you even remember.”

At that, I frown. “Remember what?”

Phil doesn’t answer me. He shakes his head, wipes his tears away, and steps back away from me. “This is hopeless. This just proves how selfish you are - you can’t even remember us properly. You’ve completely recreated me in your memory, haven’t you?” More tears fall and Phil just turns his head completely away from me so I can’t see them. “You’re ashamed of something, at least. You’re ashamed of  _me_. So you erased me.”

That wording makes my heart drop.  _Erased?_ Was it really me?

“I didn’t…” I struggle out. “You’re lying.”

“ _No,_ ” Phil yells. He’s never yelled at me before. This whole scenario is entirely new between us. “Don’t you  _dare_ , Dan. Haven’t you hurt me enough already?”

This time, I find I can’t say anything.

Phil disappears from view, and it alarms me like it never has before, and I cry out in objection. If we don’t sort this out, Phil might not come back.

“No, wait! Please don’t go!” I’m right on the verge of crying. “You don’t think I’m hurting too? If you go now, do you know what that will do to me?”

To my shock, but total relief, Phil comes back.

“Tell me…” I cry, barely able to keep myself together. “Am I the reason we stopped talking? Was it because of me that you cut yourself again?”  _Was your suicide my fault?_

I notice Phil’s hands - now fists - twitch. He’s overwhelmed like I’ve never seen him before. Has he ever felt this enraged?

“Yes,” he spits back. I feel the blood drain from my face, and my legs start to tremble. “I cut myself because of you. Are you happy?”

_Of fucking course I’m not._

Everyone knew Phil’s death was a suicide because of how he died: there were small cuts across his wrist, again, like there used to be when I first met him, and one long slash down the middle of his forearm - from the wrist to the elbow. That was his cause of death. He didn’t have those cuts before, not a single one of them. We were happy, until the camp-out, then we stopped talking, and Phil started avoiding me. He was looking sadder than usual. I couldn’t get close enough to him to see if he had any scars. Not on Sunday, or Monday, and Monday was the day that I found him dead.

So now I know. I caused his death.

I ran home that day instead of going to school. Phil didn’t follow me - I don’t know where he went. I ran into the bathroom, into the shower, even with my clothes on, and brought the blade to my wrist again. Why shouldn’t I? It’s all my life means now - I was the cause of Phil’s death. I drove him to suicide.

If only we hadn’t met. Then I wouldn’t have been the cause. Phil would still be dead, but at least I could have been happy. We should never have met.

I don’t know how many times I drew blood, how many cuts I made. Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop myself. The pain wasn’t enough. The frustration wouldn’t go away.

Maybe we could have been happy, even if we’d still met. We were so happy together for a while.

_When sixth form started, Phil seemed to cling to me like a koala, never leaving my side. We didn’t have many classes together - only English and Psychology - but he stayed with me whenever he could. I didn’t mind it. I understood it - Phil didn’t have any friends but me._

_“Where do you want to go?” Phil asks once break comes around. We’ll have forty minutes before our next lesson._

_I find myself sighing quietly to myself. “Phil, I know we still hang out with each other, but I’m still not allowed to have friends. If my mum were to find out, I’d be screwed. She’s threatened to homeschool me before, or send me away to a boarding school.”_

_Phil’s eyes go wide with shock. “Jesus, that’s cruel.”_

_I don’t say anything to that. “So I don’t know about you, but I have to go to the music department and get some work done.”_

_I expect him to slump in disappointment, but Phil’s eyes brighten suddenly with joy. “Then I’ll go with you! You can still work, and I’ll stick around.”_

_I wasn’t going to say no to him anyway, but the way he smiles so happily at the thought of staying by my side really seals the deal._

_I walk him to the music room - there’s only a few people doing music this year, and most of them aren’t as dedicated as me, so we can have the room to ourselves (this was the case for most of the year, actually, until a music event was on the horizon)._

_I settle myself at the piano and start to stretch my fingers, and Phil sits himself down on the table in front of me so I’m only just able to see him over the top of the piano._

_“What do you do in here?” he asks me, sounding genuinely curious. Phil doesn’t have any hobbies or little interests like this._

_I start to play my fingers along the keys, making sure it sounds properly tuned. “I work on a piece - usually I learn a song on here. Not that many people can play the piano_ and  _sing, let alone at the same time.”_

_“Wow,” Phil gasps, smiling to himself. “Can I get a little taster?”_

_I try not to smile and show how happy that makes me. “Sure. Do you know the musical_ Once _?” Of course, as expected, Phil shakes his head. “Fair enough. It’s a beautiful piece. My favourite song from it is_ Falling Slowly _. Technically, it’s a duet, but what am I supposed to do?” I shrug my shoulders and start to play:_

_This piece has a beautiful sound - there’s a chord sequence on the left hand and a delicate little melody on the right, which feels to my fingers like they’re gently touching the surface of water._

_I haven’t warmed up my voice, but since Phil asked, I start to sing - my heart beats nauseously loud in my chest and feel dizzier than normal. I’ve never sung in front of Phil before. I’ve never felt this nervous performing in front of others, not even a huge crowd. Why is that so much easier than performing to one person that I’m hopelessly close with? Do I fear disappointment? No, of course not. The crowd would scare me more then, or auditions would at the very least. So why do I care so much more about Phil?_

“I don’t know you,  
But I want you  
All the more for that.

“Words fall through me,  
And always fool me,  
And I can’t react.”

_The chords drop slightly, giving a different feel. My fingers are shaking._

“And games that never amount  
To more than they’re worth  
Will play themselves out.”

_A small melody plays on the right - a little paddle, back and forth, on two keys, like raindrops. It sounds like hope to me. All music feels like something abstract whenever I hear it - that’s how I pick which songs I want to play._

“Take this sinking boat,  
And point it home,  
We’ve still got time.”

_The high note takes me by surprise, and I fall into falsetto, making it softer than usual._

“Raise your hopeful voice,  
You have a choice,  
You’ll make it now.”

_I run out of breath, quicker than usual, and my fingers finally can’t play any longer. I just can’t keep myself composed in front of Phil._

_“Sorry,” I gasp out, starting to go red. “That wasn’t very good.”_

_When I dare to look up, and face Phil, his eyes are wide, and he looks astounded._

_“That was beautiful,” he cries, hardly able to shut his mouth._

_All I can do is stare. My heart pounds relentlessly against my chest, unable to take the compliment. Phil likes it? He likes my performance?_

_I find myself blushing harder and I glance away. “T-thanks…” I struggle out. “But it sounds way more beautiful with the harmony. It’s my favourite song for that.”_

_I look back at Phil. He won’t stop looking at me. There’s definitely something on his mind. Maybe… has his face gone red too?_

_“Teach me,” he suggests. “Teach me how to sing it. Then we can hear how beautiful it sounds.”_

_There’s an urge inside me to laugh, but I suppress it, because I’m incredibly intrigued by the idea. I’ve never sung a duet with anyone I’ve actually known before. “Have you ever sung before?”_

_Phil looks down. “No… not really.”_

_I consider that. “Then I could teach you. It won’t take long.”_

_He looks at me again, and we both smile. “Thank you. That sounds good.”_

_It took a few months to really get Phil to sing. He struggled for a while to get the hang of it - to get his voice to grasp and control the concept of tonality. But we got there. He isn’t amazing, but he can hit the notes, and that’s a good singer on all accounts._

_So, once that was done, we worked on the song._

_“Are you ready?” I ask him, sitting on my stool in front of the piano. This time, Phil sits with me - we were getting used to doing that._

_Phil nods quickly, but I can tell he’s already shaking._

_I put my hand over his and squeeze gently. “Don’t worry. You can go wrong. It can sound awful.”_

_“But I don’t want it to,” he whines, giving me a sad look. “I want it to sound good for you.”_

_I wish I’d stop blushing so easily._

_I turn to the piano and start playing - bass clef and treble clef - as I’ve memorised, falling back into the calmness of the melody. I sing the first verse as normal, and the chorus, without anything fancy - so Phil can catch on._

_When the second verse comes, I turn my head to him, watching him carefully, as we start to sing - Phil on the main tune, and me on the harmony, a couple of notes higher._

“Falling slowly,  
Eyes that know me,  
And I can’t go back.

“Moods that take me  
And erase me  
And I’m painted black.”

_I find myself smiling widely at the sounds we’re making - it’s too perfect. The connection of the notes, every single one, in every word, sounds so gorgeous, I almost want to cry. It’s the sound of hope again, but stronger this time._

“You have suffered enough,  
And warred with yourself;  
It’s time that you won.”

_We continue through to the chorus, smiling at each other, impressed with our work._

“Take this sinking boat,  
And point it home,  
We’ve still got time.”

_The high note works so well with the two of us._

“Raise your hopeful voice,  
You had a choice,  
You’ve made it now.

“Falling slowly,  
Sing your melody,  
I’ll sing along.”

_Then the piano continues with its delicate little tune, the bass dropping out, and Phil lets out a loud and relieved laugh._

_“That was amazing!” he cries out, grinning like I’ve never seen him do before. “We sounded so good!”_

_I smile back, cutting the melody short. “Yeah. We really did.”_

_Suddenly, Phil falls into me, and his arms squeeze me tightly, and I can’t breathe. A hug? He’s hugging me? Have we ever hugged before? Carefully, I wrap my arms around him too and hold him close. I’m trembling, and my heart is shaking too, but I can’t help but enjoy it. He feels so warm. Who knew a hug could feel so good?_

_“Thank you,” Phil whispers, squeezing me tighter._

_I let out a breathy chuckle and don’t let him go._

***

By morning, after a night alone, Phil still doesn’t come back to me. I wonder if he’s even around at all. Why should he be? He finished what he came back here to do - let me know that I was the reason that he killed himself, make me suffer, make me feel his pain. Well he’s won.

I hate how our memories feel now. They were painful before, because Phil was gone, but now they stab and sting, tormenting me at any moment they can. This is torture - my final punishment for what I did to Phil. This is all deserved.

***

 _In the music room, again, during December. It’s getting colder than usual. I’ve still been working on getting Phil to sing, and since progress is slow, we’ve been filling our time (more like procrastinating) with other tasks. I started working on another song -_ I Only Have Eyes For You _, which I fell in love in after I saw the show the other week. I’ve been learning it dedicatedly on the piano ever since._

_At one point, as I push myself back from the piano to take a break, I notice Phil sitting on his table again, notebook and pen in hand, scribbling which a dedication that I certainly recognise._

_“What are you up to over there?” I call out, making Phil jump and bring the notebook defensively to his chest. I see the challenge in his action and start to laugh. “Hmm. That looks awfully special to you.”_

_“_ Please  _don’t,” Phil begs me. He knows my plans are being made - that I’ll try and sneak it from him. “It’s embarrassing.”_

_“I really doubt that, Phil,” I shoot back. As I push myself up onto my feet, Phil only tightens his hold on the book. “Shit. You really care about it, don’t you?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Is it dirty?”_

_His eyes blow wide open. “No, of course not!” he cries out, appalled by the assumption._

_I change my tactic then, instead deciding to sit myself down beside him and show him a pout. “Please let me see? I promise I won’t make fun of you, even if it is porn.”_

_“It’s not porn, you pervert.”_

_I chuckle at that. “I let you hear me sing, and I was terrified.” I clap my hands together in a begging motion. “Please?”_

_To my surprise, Phil actually loosens his grip and lays the notebook on my lap._

_“Thank you!” I squeal, suddenly giddy with excitement._

_I flip the book over in hands and hold it up to my face, realising what Phil has on this page isn’t a drawing, but a list of words._

“A piano - the faintest and softest sounds play,  
Like a prelude to something alike to Monet -  
The keys rise and they fall, gently swaying in time,  
Rhythm soothing, legato, like waves of sublime.”

_For a moment, I can’t say anything. Phil’s been writing poetry? About music?_

“With eyes closed and heart beating the tune’s metronome,  
I transform and embezzle my heart’s monotone:  
Syncopation - my heart skips a beat - freeze -  
And fall back into song, my heart playing the keys.”

_I glance back up at Phil to see his cheeks glowing a bright pink at his exposure._

_“This is…” I struggle out. “Phil, you’re a writer?”_

_“No!” Phil cries defensively. “I’m not very good.”_

_I stare back down at the page of words again. “But… all this terminology… when did you learn all this?”_

_Phil just shrugs. “I did some research, in here. I’ve had a lot of alone time this term, you know?”_

_I can hardly say anything. “Phil, I’m shocked,” I gasp out. “You’ve actually grown an interest in my work?”_

_With that, he shows me a sweet smile. “Of course I have: it’s you.”_

_Those words, for the first time, make my heart ache._

_In Spring, at the start of the term, I find Phil’s notebook in the music room - he had bought a new one and had lost this one a while back, upsetting him greatly because he had a lot of work in there that he couldn’t remember. I think he’d even cried over it._

_I open it up, inspecting its pages, excited with what Phil has been writing about recently - he always seems to be scribbling away relentlessly, every break that we have._

_There’s a page full of information on the connotations of colours of roses, which catches my attention:_

“White = purity  
Pink = admiration  
Orange and coral = desire  
Red = love/passion  
Purple = enchantment  
Yellow = friendship  
No thorns = love at first sight  
Red tips = falling in love”

_Over the page, there’s another long list of information about different flowers, so I read through it all:_

“Lilac = beautiful nymph chased by admirer (forest god), frightened, escaped his affections, (purple = first emotions of life, white = innocence of youth), bloom in spring  
Amaryllis = maiden fell in love, pierced own heart with golden arrow and bled from heart, blood made flowers grow, both fell in love and heart healed, (red = love/devotion), bloom in summer  
Poppy = grew after war, (red = blood), used to make opiates, bloom from spring to summer”

_No wonder Phil loved the pink rose on my hoodie so much._

_When I turn over the page, I find a beautiful poem - I think it’s a sonnet, from my experience of English Literature. As I read it over, my eyes grow wide, and I feel like clouds I hadn’t known were shrouding my vision suddenly disappear, and everything becomes clear._

_I don’t return the notebook to Phil - I have a much better idea._

***

Phil still hasn’t come back. I’m beginning to feel that familiar sense of hopeless as I did on the mornings after blissful dreams of him. It’s starting to feel like he’s never coming back. Maybe I really was crazy, and he was just in my head. Maybe nothing he said was even true. What does it matter, when I so obviously hurt Phil enough to drive him to suicide?

I haven’t been to sixth form for four days now. The calls won’t stop. The teachers, that knew about Phil, are all worried for me. They shouldn’t be - I deserve it all.

Wednesday night. A Monday would have been more appropriate, but I can’t make myself wait that long. This has been a long time coming.

I keep my clothes on - my best clothes - as I walk down the field. The weather is inappropriately pleasant today. I wish it was cold and wet. I make my way to the river, the one I crossed to get to Phil nearly two years ago.  _Two years._ I’ve spent as much time recovering from Phil as I did knowing him alive.

My mum was right. I should never have made Phil my friend.

I sit myself down on the edge and dangle my feet over the water. In my left hand, I hold the blade, with its familiar sharp edge. I feel numb to it now. It’s like a necklace I would wear in remembrance, or a gift from someone special.

I bring it to my wrist, holding it tightly between my thumb and index finger. This time, I hold it vertically to my wrist. I need to feel his pain. I caused this. I’m the cause of everything.

“STOP!”

I glance up, seeing Phil standing on the other side of the river, staring at me with horror bleeding through his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

I slowly look down at the blade and back at Phil. “What do you think? You of all people should know.”

There are tears in Phil’s eyes. “Of course I do. You think I haven’t seen this coming? I know the signs. You haven’t been eating, or going out, and you always keep your wrist covered.”

I stare back at him. “If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?” Phil’s head drops down, knowing his helplessness. “That’s right. Because you can’t stop me.”

“I didn’t think it would get this bad…” he sobs. “Please, just think about what you’re doing.”

“I have,” I shoot back. “I’ve thought plenty. I caused your suicide, I broke my promise to you, so what else is there left for me?”

Phil moves himself beside me and lays a chilling hand over my own. “You still think you’re to blame for my death?” he mutters sadly. Then, strangely, he lets out a subtle laugh - very out of place in this moment. “You’re not selfish - you’re self-destructive. Dan,” he calls. I finally look at him. “You didn’t drive me to suicide. All you did was make me happy. I died because of a silly bully’s mistake.”

That old feeling of clouds clearing from my mind starts up again, and all I can say is “Huh?”

Phil reaches and lays his hands on my head, and I grow dizzy - and then I fall to sleep.

_The Summer music concert. Mid-term. June. I spent a long time preparing this song - I could only work on it at home. I hope it’s good enough. I hope it serves its purpose._

_Hope. Music always reminds me of that, if it’s good._

_“And now,” Miss Sambi calls excitedly, making my heart flutter with nerves. “I am thrilled to say that we have an amazing AS student with an original song he has written - and will now perform - by himself.”_

_The crowd starts to chatter in a crescendo, intrigued._

_“Please welcome Daniel Howell!”_

_The crowd starts to applaud already, and I make my nervous way onto the stage and over to the piano. As I walk out, I take my time to scan over the crowd, searching desperately - and there he is. Phil. In the front row. He doesn’t like a lot of music - especially not the Year 7 woodwind orchestra - but I begged him to come to this one._

_I take my seat, my legs feeling wobbly enough to collapse had I not, and I lay my hands on the familiar keys of the grand piano._

_I start to play, the tune being my own: a soft, faint chord on the left hand, and combination of those keys on the right, in the treble clef, feeling like raindrops, like I’m in control. I play a C chord, for two bars, then an F chord for another two, then repeat._

_I take deep, nervous breath, desperate to impress._

“A poppy grew and bloomed at Summer’s start,  
From blood that had been spilt at times of war.  
It reached and wrapped its roots around my heart;  
Released a drug I had not felt before.”

_With the gentle fall off the note on the last two lines, I glance over to Phil to my side:_

_He’s staring right at me. Eyes wide. Face white. He hardly looks like he’s breathing._

_So I continue._

“Within my heart a rose began to grow,  
Encouraged by the poppy’s opium.  
The drug bled through, the petals start to glow,  
With colours showing dreams utopian.

“It blossoms wide and grows a purple sheath;  
Thorns fall away and pink appears in drips;  
A yellow blooms to hide all those beneath;  
In time, it fades, with red along the tips.”

_In the bridge, I sprinkle the usual rhythm with a little ornamentation, and vocalise a little - softly, lightly, as if it were only me in the room and I were singing to just myself, like everyone else is a spectator witnessing the exposure of my deepest secrets - hearing my soliloquy._

_I begin to end the song, slowing down the rhythm and softening the notes._

“The lilac in my amaryllis sight;  
In Summer, purple overwhelmed the white.”

_With a final fall, controlled, and soft, from the last note, I take my hands away from the keys, and the room fills with applause._

_I glance over to Phil. His face is drowning in tears. I can’t tell if he’s overwhelmed with joy, or despair._

_He runs out of the room before I even stand up. I immediately start to worry. Once I’m out, he doesn’t even meet me._

_The next time I’ll see him is tomorrow - at the end-of-year camp-out. I’ll have to face him then._

***

I wake up slowly, groaning softly, and twisting gently beneath the covers. As I open my eyes, I see that before me sits Phil - legs crossed, fingers twisted together in his lap, watching me quietly with a soft, sad smile.

“Hey,” he whispers, his smile getting bigger.

He reaches his right hand forwards and brushes his fingers over my right wrist - which, now, is wrapped neatly in a bandage. I twist the wrist carefully to make sure I’m not deceiving myself. How have I got this?

“Turns out,” Phil says softly, “if I focus hard enough, and I want it bad enough, I can affect real physical things.” He gently taps the bandage, drawing both our attention to it. “This took some time.”

I gaze back up at Phil and just stare at him. I can’t think of what to say.

“What?” He cocks his head at me, noticing me staring. “Did you think I could just let you die?”

Ashamed, I look away.

Phil reaches his hand to my head and sweetly strokes his fingers against my hair. “I think it’s time that I did what I came here to do,” he says sadly. “You deserve to know what really happened to me.”

I swallow down my nerves and lay still, encouraging Phil to talk. He takes a deep breath - habit, I guess - and starts to speak.

_Tonight’s our end of year camp-out on the school field - Year 12s only, after we’ve completed our AS exams. In Year 10, we had a camp-out too, but I didn’t go to that one - I have no one to share a tent with, so why bother?_

_This year, I sit in mine nervously, legs bouncing and fingers shaking. I don’t know if I can face Dan now. I don’t know what we’ll say. Now that he knows, and he’s let me know that he knows. What were his intentions? To mock me? To tell me how sweet he thought my poem was? Maybe he just thought the words would go well in a song, and he doesn’t actually know a thing._

_Don’t be stupid, Phil - all your notes were in that book too! You practically told him everything yourself!_

_7pm, the tent opens and Dan climbs inside, making my body go stiff. He crawls up to my face and shows me a kind look._

_“Hey there,” he giggles._

_“H-hi,” I choke back._

_Dan crawls over to his side of the bed and starts unpacking his stuff, and I can only watch him anxiously. I’m dreading what he’s going to say: will he hate me; will we stop being friends? But worst of all, I’m dreading the most that he won’t say anything all night._

_It gets late without Dan saying a word to me about last night. The whole field has gone quiet - I think everyone’s fallen asleep._

_Dan turns himself onto his side on his sleeping bag and faces me, smiling._

_“Now,” he says, stringing out the word. The implication cuts my breath short. “You haven’t told me what you thought about yesterday yet. I’ve been waiting all day.”_

_I realise the reason why his words are slurring like that, now that he’s gotten this close to me. “You’re drunk!” I gasp._

_“No I’m not,” Dan objects. “I only drank a little. I needed a confidence-booster, that’s all.”_

_I don’t know how drunk he really is, or if he’s just a little tipsy, but right now I feel quite jealous of his idea. I could really do with some confidence, too._

_“I guess…” I try to start, looking away from him. “I want to know why you did that, with my poem. I want to know what you thought of it.”_

_Dan, quietly, start to giggle to himself. “You mean, you want to know if I understood it?”_

_I gulp, lost of words._

_He leans closer. “Of course I did. I’m your poppy.” He says it with a proud grin. “And you’ve liked me for a long time.”_

_My cheeks flush pink. I can’t make myself look at him. My heart is beating fast. “Y-yes, that’s all true.”_

_Then, taking me off guard, Dan lays his hand on my cheek. His touch feels warm, and it makes my skin feel fuzzy and like it can’t hold itself together anymore._

_“You’re funny,” he says with a giggle. “You picked a good story with the amaryllis flower: you bled, and I fell for you.” Dan pulls us both closer. I can’t breathe anymore. “We both did.”_

_I gulp. “So… so what does this mean?”_

_Dan raises an eyebrow. “It means I like you too, silly,” he mutters in a whisper, the words said as softly as he sings. “I’ve wondered for ages what it would be like - “ He closes his eyes. “ - to kiss you.”_

_He pulls me towards him, pressing his lips against my own. My heart flutters, overwhelmed, and my whole body trembles. Can this be real? If I open my eyes, I see Dan, but I still can’t believe it. How can my life really have come to this? What have I ever done to deserve him?_

_Hands trembling, I reach out to him and grip his clothes tightly, pulling him closer. Now that I have him, I don’t want to ever let him go._

_Dan shifts me onto my back and climbs on top of me, and his mouth moves confidently to my neck. I squeal at the touch, to which Dan shushes me quietly. “Dan, we can’t… I can’t… people might hear…”_

_“I don’t care,” he whispers, gently kissing my neck. “I want to make you happy.”_

_I bite my lip and let us keep going, unable to deny myself this happiness now that it’s finally within my reach._

“So I…” I gasp, words shaky. “I really did tell you, in the end?”

Phil smiles, nodding his head.

I let out a heavy sigh in relief.  _Thank god!_

“Was that why you thought you’d made me kill myself?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” I sigh back. “I thought I’d upset you, that you’d think I stole your work for my own gain and ignored you because I knew you liked me. I assumed that if I’d just talked with you, then you’d still be alive.”

The thought of Phil dying for a reason I couldn’t help makes my chest hurt, but before I can clench my fingers together Phil has already laid his hands on mine.

“You did everything you could,” he reassures me. “You made me the happiest I could have been.”

His words force a smile on my face. But it’s hard to sustain.

“Then… then why did we stop talking, after that night?”

Phil closes his mouth then, and looks away from me. “Ahh… that was my fault. By morning, you were hungover, and you were really irritable and wouldn’t talk about what had happened the night before.” Phil’s face takes on a distressed expression, and I hate it. “I thought that you were regretting what we’d done. So I stayed away from you. I ended up overthinking, assuming I’d messed everything up between us, and I started to cut again.”

The mention of it makes my stomach twist up.

“Do you remember,” Phil continues, pausing every so often, “my bullies?”

I nod: Phil had been followed since Year 9, from what he told me. There were three of them - they changed sometimes, but their number remained the same. The teasing wasn’t much: some jokes and name-calling about being a loser. But they didn’t pay him much attention once we were in sixth form - it may have been because I was around, but their teasing ended.

“Well… they started to suspect that I might like you, so they were watching me…”

_Monday. I haven’t seen Dan all day - I’ve been hiding in the bathroom, hoping he won’t find me. He wouldn’t be looking for me anyway: he doesn’t want to see me. As much as I want to see him, I can’t. That night wasn’t true. All he did was hurt me._

_I sit in the cubicle, door locked, letting my tears run freely. I have a blade in my hand, running it over my wrist and whimpering at the pain. I hold a tissue over the new scar afterwards, hoping I won’t leave too much of a stain._

_Suddenly, the door opens, and I glance up in surprise at my interruption. My heart sinks._

_“Here’s the little shit,” the boy chuckles, smirking. Two others step inside and close the door behind them, locking it shut. Who knew they could unlock it?_

_I’m frozen to my seat. They’ve never hit me before._

_He kneels down in front of me. I try to hide the blade in my hand, hoping he won’t see it._

_“You had a lot of fun on Saturday, didn’t you?” he teases. “You know, even if you like someone, you shouldn’t try anything if they’re drunk.”_

_My eyes so wide. “No, it’s not - I didn’t - “_

_He clasps his hand over my mouth and I realise today isn’t going to be anything like I’m used to. “You’re disgusting, you know that?” I avert my eyes, refusing to look at him. His hand grabs mine and forces my fingers apart, and he takes the blade for himself. My heart beat starts to quicken, worried. “We can help you suffer for it, don’t worry. It’s a little hard to do it properly yourself.”_

_I’m dragged onto the floor and my arms are pinned down. I start to scream, but my mouth is still muzzled. I try to struggle, but it gets me nowhere._

_“You’re a bad influence,” the boy spits as he drags the blade across my wrist, causing me to cry out. He’s cutting too deep. “That kid is good - way too good for you. You need to let him go before you destroy his life. Do you understand?”_

_I just let my tears fall. I should have stayed away from Dan a long time ago._

_“We even typed out a little note for you to give him,” he laughs, throwing it down beside me._

_“Do you think he’s learned his lesson now?” one of the others suggests._

_This one - the one with the blade kneeling over me - tuts and shakes his head. “Not quite. Just one more cut, and he can go.”_

_He holds it down against my wrist and I cry out desperately when I see which way he’s angling it. But there isn’t much I can do - I’ve already lost a lot of blood. I’m going woozy._

_As he cuts through my flesh for a final time, my vision starts to blur, and I realise that this might be the end for me. I feel how much blood flows out of me once he’s done. I feel it spread through my clothes._

_“Shit,” they start to cry. “Oh shit - he doesn’t look too good.”_

_“Hey!” he screams at me, shaking my shoulders. I can’t bring myself to respond. “Oh, fucking hell!”_

_They run out in panic, slamming the door behind them so hard I think it breaks._

_I stare out from underneath the door of the cubicle and groan with the energy I have left, wishing I’d never met Dan in the first place. I could have saved us both a lot of pain._

“Don’t worry,” Phil reassures me quietly. His voice is hoarse now - he’s been trying to hold himself back from crying this whole time. “It wasn’t horrible. It felt like I was waking up from a dream, and when I pushed myself up, I realised I wasn’t exactly part of my body anymore.” He sniffles and wipes his eyes. “So then I just had to wait, until you showed up and found me. Your reaction confused me so much - and I realised I might have been wrong about you hating me.”

My fingers are shaking, so I squeeze them together to try and stop it. “I want to hug you so badly right now,” I cry, not bothering to wipe away my tears.

“I know,” Phil says back. “I do too.”

I force out a strong breath and wipe my nose. “Fuck. You shouldn’t be dead.”

“I shouldn’t be, but I am. There’s nothing to be done about that.” He reaches his hands towards me and lays them on my cheeks, and I embrace their cold touch. “I’m just glad we could finally sort this out. Don’t be sad for me anymore. I want you to be happy.” Phil shows me a smile. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And then, unexpectedly, Phil quietly starts to sing.

“ _You are sunlight, and I moon.”_

“Phil, what are you - “

He puts his hand over my mouth as a symbol for me to shush.

 _“Joined by the gods of fortune._  
_Midnight and high noon._  
_Sharing the sky._  
_We have been blessed, you and I.”_

His hand falls away, and he stares at me expectantly. And I realise that the next part is another singer’s.

 _“You are here like a mystery._  
_I’m from a world that’s so different_  
_From all that you are._  
_How in the light of one night,_  
_Did we come so far?”_

I let out a sudden cough: my throat is dry and tight from all my crying. Luckily, Phil takes over.

_“Outside, day starts to dawn.”_

  _“Your moon still floats on high.”_

  _“The birds awake.”_

  _“The stars shine too.”_

  _“My hands still shake.”_

  _“I reach for you.”_

Both, together, as we always loved to do:

_“And we meet in the sky.”_

The harmony is nice, and I enjoy holding the note with him.

I wish I could hold Phil’s hand: now, as we sing, and always. I wish we could stay together forever. I wish I never had to let him go. I’m not stupid, I know how Phil’s mind works. I know what he’s trying to tell me.

The threat of tears grows inside me again and I turn my head away from him as he keeps on singing.

 _“You are sunlight, and I moon._  
_Joined here._  
_Bright’ning the sky_  
_With the flame of love.”_

I decide, as bad as I might end up sounding, I might as well finish this song with him for once.

_“Made of sunlight,  
Moonlight.”_

I hate that it’s ended. Tears well in my eyes without my permission and I can’t stop them from falling down my face.

To reassure me, Phil shows me a kind smile. “We always sounded good together, didn’t we? And it’s all because you put in the effort and didn’t give up on me.”

I shake my head. “Stop it…”

He doesn’t. “We had a lot of good times together. You made me the happiest I ever could have been, and I never truly thanked you for that.”

“This isn’t fair…” I sniffle, wiping my tears away. “We haven’t had enough time.”

Then, Phil’s face falls sad again. “Dan - “

I push myself up and sit in front of him. “You can’t do this to me.”

“Dan,  _please_ ,” Phil cries. “I  _ache_ and I’m  _tired._  You can’t know how much it hurts having to hold on like this, and I’ve been holding on for almost a year.” He looks like he’s going to cry too. “My time is up. And now I want my peace.” He reaches his hands out to me, but they stop. His fingers are shaking. So he drops them into his lap and shoots me a sad look. “I warned you. I never wanted to hurt you, Dan. But you have to let me go.”

My throat start to seize up painfully. “I can’t… I can’t lose you again.”

“You’re not losing me again. I’ve always been gone.” Then he forces a smile onto his face. “Don’t be sad for me. I’m happy right now. I’m not scared. I want to do this. Isn’t that what you always wanted for me?”

I let out a helpless sniffle. “I wanted to give you a reason to live,” I cry.

“And you did - you gave me more than that. You gave me a reason to be happy, and to stick around even after death, and you’ve given me a final blessing for happiness - through closure. If you want me to be happy,” he asks me softly, “let me say my goodbye.”

My lip trembles. Unconsciously, my hands reach out desperately to him, needing to hold him - but I still can’t touch him. At the futility of it - my wants and my stubbornness - my hands clench, trembling, into fists, my throat lets out a loud cry and a flood of tears starts to fall. “But I don’t want you to go,” I whine, my voice losing its strength and composure to my despair.

Phil reaches his hands towards me but doesn’t lay them on my own. “Dan,” he sings, trying to keep me calm. “I could think of no better heaven than spending every moment with you.”

Against all odds, those words actually bring a smile to my face. “Then stay,” I cry out - a final, pleading, desperate attempt. “Stay through the night; just a little longer. For me.” I try to compose myself, swallowing down part of the urge to cry. “ _Please_.”

To my relief, Phil says “Okay.”

***

The dance before me ends, and as the audience starts to applaud, the dancers all rush offstage into the wings. There are dancers behind me, ready to follow me on.

My dance school’s show is a medley, as they decided to call it -  _The Musical Medley_. Each number is from a wide range of different musicals. My act?  _Moulin Rouge._  The dancers with me are dressed in black and silver sparkly outfits, and I’m wearing a glittery silver suit (well, a more-mobile-than-average suit). Marie told me that their singer dropped out at the last minute - as in the first technical rehearsal - and I was around to help with the show anyway. Plus I already knew the song.

The applause dies down, and I take a deep breathe. I step out onto the stage, carrying my mic stand with me, and place it down downstage right. The dancers all run into place behind me and take their positions, and the whole theatre stills into silence.

I take another deep breath.

Even now, he’s all I can think about, but I’m composed this time.

The music starts - a light piano melody that I’ve learnt to play myself, before - and the lights dim on the stage. A projection begins - presenting to the audience, behind me, a beautiful sparkling portrayal of the night sky. The stars begin to twinkle, and the glitter and sparkles on all our costumes start to do the same.

I place one hand on the mic and start to sing.

 _“Never knew I could feel like this._  
_Like I’ve never seen the sky before._  
_Want to vanish inside your kiss._  
_Every day I love you more, and more._

 _“Listen to my heart;_  
_Can you hear it sing?_  
_Telling me to give you everything._  
_Seasons may change:_  
_Winter to spring._  
_But I love you,_  
_Until the end of time.”_

The music starts to build, so I take a deeper breath, bringing power into my voice. I try not to think about how much better it would sound with the harmony.

 _“Come what may._  
_Come what may._  
_I will love you,_  
_Until my dying day._

 _“Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place._  
_Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace._  
_Suddenly my life doesn’t seem such a waste._  
_It all revolves around you.”_

Another big breath, clutching the mic tightly.

 _“And there’s no mountain too high,_  
_No river too wide:_  
_Sing out this song and I’ll be there by your side._  
_Storm clouds may gather and stars may collide._

_“But I love you,  
Until the end of time.”_

I spent my remaining hours with Phil down by the river, where we first met. We stayed there until dark - I feared that he would be gone by morning, so I had to make this night last. We didn’t say much to each other - there would be too many tears. I needed the night to be like a return to the year before, like Phil was still alive, like we could make up for lost time and prepare ourselves for the next part.

He told me, as the sun was setting, about how I was always on his mind at night - alive and dead. Phil said he used to fear the night for the loneliness: being trapped alone with his thoughts, especially his depression, led to his mental decline, but when he thought of me - like that first night, when he kept my hoodie close - those thoughts were silenced. Because I cared about him.

“From that very first day we met,” he sighed, “you had given me my reason to live. It was you.” Though I was holding back my tears, I let us share a smile. “The darkest night never felt so bright with you by my side.”

 _“Come what may._  
_Come what may._  
_I will love you,_  
_Until my dying day.”_

That night, Phil laid with me in bed like he had before, and I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t fall asleep. I couldn’t let him go.

Phil laid his hand on mine to reassure me - but, this time, I didn’t feel the chill. I couldn’t feel him there at all.

“No…” I cried, realising what this meant. “Not yet.”

“It’s okay,” Phil reassured me. He had tears in his eyes too. As he laid his hand gently on my head, even though I cried out helplessly for him to stay, Phil showed me a smile brighter than any I’d seen on him before.

“I love you!” I cry out, feeling myself grow sleepy.

At those words, Phil’s eyes seem to sparkle. I know, now, I’ve truly made him happy.

“I love you too,” he says back. “I always will.”

 _“Oh, come what may._  
_Come what may._  
_I will love you._

_“Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place.”_

I dreamt about him, but he left early, before the sun could rise. He wasn’t there when I woke up.

I realise now - tears on my cheeks as the music drifts to an end, and the dancers take their final ending position - that nothing said between me and Phil can be proven. Perhaps he wasn’t real, these past few days, and it was all in my mind. Maybe I was simply desperate to have this closure - to have his death not be my fault, to have Phil be happy in his final moments, to have told him how I really felt, and to have been able to say my goodbye: to have a happy ending. I can’t prove any of it. But still: Phil might be dead, but the life he led in that year with me meant more than death ever could.

 _“Come what may._  
_Come what may._  
_I will love you_  
_Until my dying day.”_

That night, in the dream and by the river, and now, on stage, the stars have never shined brighter.

 


End file.
